


tension

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blackmail, Bladder Control, Desperation, Forced Wetting, Gen, Humiliation, M/M, Piss, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 04:29:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21332290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Peter makes Martin wait.and wait, and wait
Relationships: Peter Lukas & Martin Blackwood, Peter Lukas/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 2
Kudos: 54





	tension

For all of his predictability, sometimes Martin really managed to surprise him.

The first time was a fluke. The second lended more credibility. And third time, that was the charm.

Peter phased in just as Martin was leaving. “Martin.”

“You know you can’t scare me that way anymore.”

Evidently, Martin felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up when Peter was nearby these days. More attuned to Peter’s presence, closer to his patron. That was good. Martin being so very under his thumb these days was enthralling, in much the same way Martin moved now, subtle and anxious, as he waited on Peter to respond.

He wasn’t _ quite _ as subtle as he thought he was, but more was the fun.

“And _ you _ know that had never been my intention. How goes the research today?”

“It’s–” He looked between his desk and the door, so brief a glance that Peter might have imagined it. Well. _Might have._ _“– going,”_ he said, taking a step back to the desk. “Um. Not well, really, but I did find some stuff–”

“Oh?”

All it took was one sound, one _ vaguely _ interested noise of intrigue, and Martin was double-glancing at him, then, all dewy-eyed uncertainty and the complete need for approval. _ Anyone’s _ approval. Yes, even Peter’s.

“Y–” A tiny pause of discomfort, shifting on the balls of his feet. But he continued, “yeah. There was one, thought it might have been something? Where was it, um, oh, this–” Martin hooked his ankle around the chair to pull it in to sit, brandishing some old case file in his eagerness to impress.

Peter propped an elbow on the desk, leaning in to drink it in.

Sheer desperation for human interaction aside, Martin really _ was _ good at his job. Plucking things even Peter had missed from the dredges of the forgotten web and presenting them in ways he wouldn’t have been able to find. (But then, he was terrible with electronics. They just didn’t seem to like him, much.) He wasn’t sure if Martin had volunteered for an archival position or if Jon or Elias had recruited him, but he was gifted, that in regard.

It only did take twenty minutes to go through the more important bits of Martin’s afternoon of work, but with the increasingly less covert squirming going on as they discussed their work, it may as well have been a full two hours instead.

Maybe Martin was already flush by the time Peter praised him for his work efforts, a simple “well done, Martin” that was designed purely to play him like a fiddle, but Peter would be lying if he said he hadn’t been delighting in the steady pink creeping up Martin’s skin the more questions Peter kept asking to keep him there.

“So,” he put on the air of passionate interest, jabbing a finger at Martin’s laptop, “can you find that again? On the 'net?”

“I, uh– God.” Maybe the twenty minutes was hitting its mark. Or maybe Martin just realized Peter wasn’t _ leaving. _ Nearly a full body squirm, pressing his thighs together before pushing to his feet. Biting the bullet. “Y–Yeah, sure, but in a minute. I’ll be right back.”

Peter mirrored the motion, straightening up and putting on his best look of concern. “Was I keeping you from something?”

“No, I’m just– wanted to top up on tea,” he said. The way he said it spoke of the total _ lack _ of desire to top up on tea, but Peter would give him points. He truly wasn’t being subtle at all, now, but he was trying so hard. “Before we start in again. … did you want any?”

“No.”

Martin looked visibly relieved, and took another step towards the door. “Right, then, I’ll just–”

“And tea is really the last thing you need right now,” Peter interrupted. 

Martin stopped. 

“Don’t you think?”

Martin’s ears were red, now. That was cute.

“… right, so I’m a bad liar,” he muttered. “But I’ll still be right–”

“No.” 

“What?”

“Your choice of kink for stress relief is an interesting one, Martin, but ultimately to be handled on _ your _ own time.”

_ "What? _I–I'm– it’s not–” In between sounding indignant and flustered, a hand clenching near his thigh, Martin was managing to get nowhere at all. Still under his thumb.

“And this is _ our _ time, now,” Peter said smoothly. “So do sit down.” 

He never had been good at disobeying direct orders, but the choice was warring with him. A mixture of flabbergasted and properly desperate. Fingers clenching and unclenching, unable to keep still. “I think you can wait three minutes–”

“So should you,” Peter pointed out, and Martin _ scoffed. _

“This is stupid,” Martin announced, and continued two more steps to the door. "And definitely not part of my job description." Decision, made. Almost _ surprising. _ A fun one, but, ultimately, unimportant.

“Martin.”

“No.”

“Sit.”

_ “No.” _

Peter played the ace he’d been keeping up his sleeve. “Do it for _ Jon, _ Martin,” he said, in his very most bored of tones.

Martin jerked to a halt like he’d been pulled the opposite direction, hand catching against the doorframe like he had to physically hold himself there. “… leave him out of it.”

“Oh, but I can’t. You know our arrangement.”

“It doesn’t extend to _ this,” _ Martin hissed, but the panic had already set into his face. 

Peter needn’t say anything else at this point, really, but… “It extends to wherever I want it to extend. My protection, my price.” It was fun to poke the bear. “Hold it for Jon,” he said.

Whatever part of Martin’s face hadn’t been red before was certainly now, although he supposed it might have been either the taboo of the situation or merely the strain of it. It was probably a toss-up to Martin at this point, too. Clashing desires and all that.

But now Peter would reclaim his silence. 

Just like Martin did, as he let go of the wall. He took a step back, and then another, and another, and stiffly returned to his chair without a word. The look on his face was a determined one, but the terror in his eyes was already turning to tears glistening there, and it all but effectively undermined the facade being put on.

But Peter was kind, so he didn’t say that out loud. Instead, he pretended to be interested in all of Martin’s research strewn about the office, and kept himself ‘busy’ as well. The appearance of the thing, pretending he wasn’t watching from the corner of his eye.

It took less than five minutes for Martin’s hand to slip under the desk, after a tiny, cursory glance to see if Peter was watching. (He was, but he put on a show of being overly concerned at some small print at the bottom of a newspaper clipping instead.)

Ten minutes for the rhythmic tap of Martin’s shoe against the underside of the desk to reach a crescendo. 

Fifteen for Peter to be _ legitimately _ impressed. Maybe he ought not to be. Martin would do _ anything _ for Jon. But still.

“… Peter…”

That noise was defeated. Broken and so quiet that he wasn't making it past a whisper, but that was okay. Peter could still hear, loud and clear. 

He glanced up. It was all far from disinteresting, but he had a part to play. “Hm?”

Martin had long since given up the pretense of working, both hands under the desk, body curled over the desk in a further attempt to draw himself up tight. There were even goosebumps on his arms.

Delightful.

“… let me go.”

He blinked. “You can go anytime you’d like, Martin. I’m not _ forcing _ you to stay.”

Martin’s jaw clenched. He didn’t move.

Thirty seconds.

Sixty.

Ninety.

One-forty-o– 

“– Peter, _ please,” _ Martin blurted. He’d stopped looking at him, staring at the opposite wall instead. It didn’t hide the tone of his voice. Breathless and aching. He was properly begging, now. “Please. Please." He still wasn't making it above a whisper. Or maybe it was even quieter now. Like the noise would wrench the last semblance of control from him. Maybe it would. 

“I’m not stopping you.”

“Take back what you said.” His voice cracked on the _ back. _

“About what?”

“About J–” A tiny, strangled noise, vocals aborted and then wrenched back. “Leave him–”

“Martin,” he interrupted impatiently, “I already told you I can’t. He’s _ The Archivist. _ I can’t just dismiss him from mind anymore than you can.”

This time, it was a whimper in response.

“Besides, if you’re not committed enough to–”

“I _ can’t–” _

Ah, there he was. Almost as red as the hair on his head. Cheeks damp. A speck of blood at his lip. All the anger and disbelief from earlier drained down to desperation and pain, and the all consuming need to _ be good for Jon. _ Too bad he couldn't. 

Peter put down one of Martin’s old tapes, and sighed. The agony cut across Martin’s face like a knife. The noise. The _ disappointment. _Peter crossed his arms, and said simply, “I think we know the consequences for that, Martin.”

It wasn’t quite a sob, then, but might have been if Martin hadn’t slammed his hand on the underside of the desk in his haste to slap over his mouth instead. To make the sob _ not _ a sob, to muffle off the strangled noise into something less pronounced. Peter wasn’t _ quite _ sure if it was a noise of defeat, just then; he wasn’t at the right angle, and Martin had significant cover regardless. (The view would have been nice, but ultimately, the view wasn’t something he _ needed.) _ But he was certain it was close enough.

The last ditch attempt wasn’t about his dignity. It had stopped being about that a handful of minutes ago, or longer. This had been about preserving _ Jon’s _ instead, something so very expected from Martin, but no less sumptuous because of it.

Peter wasn’t in much mood for dignity, though.

In the end, Martin’s breathing gave it away. Any semblance of control was probably lost within the moment, when he’d turned away again, one hand gripping the desk and the other pressed over his mouth and nose like he hoped he could suffocate himself in the process. Stifle the noises, the gasping breaths and trembling whines that still made their way past the suction seal of skin on skin. 

He’d looked terrible, in that split second where he’d turned to beg Peter with his eyes. But he _ sounded _ even worse, for all of his efforts to not make noise at all.

And maybe– maybe just– if Peter listened well enough he could hear the dripping, too.

He gave him a two minute buffer. Counted it by each tick of the clock in Martin’s office, silence punctuated by time passing and Martin’s shuddering breaths. Then, Peter shoved away from the wall to rejoin him again. He stopped at the opposite side of the desk. Leaned over it to curl his hand along the back of Martin’s neck, and relished in the surprised inhale of breath for a moment longer before pulling him forward, and meeting him halfway to kiss.

It wasn’t their first kiss, and certainly not their last. Like the other times, Martin didn’t kiss him back. He didn’t move, asides from breathing hard through his nose, all staccato and so deeply terrified Peter could feel the fear rolling off of him.

He lingered for a moment longer, on the taste of salt and blood on Martin’s lips. Then, he slid his hand up to Martin’s jaw, and then his cheek, swiping his thumb through the tears soaking there. 

Martin didn’t speak.

Peter had words enough for the both of them. He turned his head, catching his lips at the hair near Martin’s temple. He passed his lips along the shell of his ear, and finally said, “… you did your best.”

Martin gasped when Peter left the human realm. Disappearing into thin air left Martin scrambling to grasp at nothing, at the displaced space where Peter had been standing. “P– _ Peter–!” _

It was far more entertaining to be detached when Martin finally, finally broke down. Tears starting fresh, a sob being torn from his lungs unimpeded. Short, fast breaths so sharp that they could have cut glass, and Peter watched as Martin finally put his face into the crook of his arm and tangled his fingers in his hair and _ cried. _

Like with research, he had always been good at that, too.

**Author's Note:**

> i made a side account specifically to post porn i don't want on my main, if you know who this is, don't @ me i will delete my existence
> 
> anyway had such a delicious mental picture of martin breaking apart after i wrote this so if any of you want to take up the responsibility and draw a very wet wrecked martin choking on his own tears please do


End file.
